


The Stolen King

by fae_of_the_rose



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: AU, Faeries - Freeform, M/M, Other, Tam Lin - Freeform, mild body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 02:35:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5113037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fae_of_the_rose/pseuds/fae_of_the_rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The village is small and speaks of faeries in the trees and curses on white roses. No one wears green or grey, and they stay far way from Carter's Rock and the crossroads leading to it. Bilbo Baggins thinks it's all nonsense.</p>
<p>It isn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stolen King

**Author's Note:**

> So thanks to Tricksy Pixie's lovely version of 'Tam Lin' and Peter Hollens's latest cover, I managed to get something out of a notebook and published in time for Halloween!

It is dark. It is always dark and dank in this town, this village, this place so small you could pass through it without ever knowing it. It is September and Bilbo must bring out his wool cardigans already. It is dark and dank and cold and he wonders why he came. This town has nothing for him in the quiet cool shadow of Carter’s Rock. But they needed a teacher, someone who reads and writes and knew plants, knew how they worked and what they meant.

So he came.

Why he needed to know plants Gandalf wouldn’t say. “Just trust me,” he says as he fades into the fog that never leaves the edges of town. “You must know plants!”

So he does.

Halloween is soon and the people are wary. They speak of fae-folk and foundlings in the fields. They talk of challenges at the crossroads, singing silver bells at midnight, the cry of the Faerie Reaper as another is marked for death. All the doors have a black rose carved onto it, the villagers all wear black roses, and they whisper of a white rose and how it is poison. Such a small town—Bilbo supposes it makes sense, these superstitions. But Bilbo knows better. 

Or he thinks he does.

One boy, young and dark but eyes bright, talks of roses, nothing but roses. This one does not wear the black rose that so many others do. A shining one, he says. A shining rose took his uncle from them.

“And one will come for me and it will shine like a star. It will be red as a fire moon.” He says all this with a smile as he toys with the silver oak leaf around his neck. His brother, solemn and yet the sun, ushers him away, worried. Afraid.

Resigned.

Shining roses. What nonsense.

Halloween is a month away, or maybe a week to hear the town talk. But Bilbo’s calendar says it is September and that it is the equinox. Bilbo will trust what he can see, not what people feel.

That is always best.

His classes today are quiet and one girl makes the sign of the cross at the sight of him. He looks himself over on his lunch break—there is nothing noticeably off today. Grey pants, green sweater that is identical to this other sweaters, crooked glasses he forgot to take off. No, nothing odd.

The bell rings. Back to class.

He stays late to grade today and it is evening by the time he leaves, locking his door and heading home. He lives outside of town, but still close enough to walk. Bilbo has long enjoyed walking.

So he does.

The sun fades. It is dark and cold as the fog rolls in and Bilbo wants his home, the small stone cottage near the house with the two brothers, sun and moon, smile and worry.

But he is lost. Perhaps that wasn’t the oak he was meant to turn at. The fog is now thick and heavy and Bilbo is lost. Oh! A sign—Bilbo is found.

Or so he thinks.

One sign points back to town. The other—to Carter Rock. The crossroads! He is at the crossroads and now he is truly lost. Carter Rock is to the east; he lives to the southwest. How did he get to the crossroads? And how does he get home from here?

And what is that shining through the fog?

Bilbo hears a bell and a laugh. Ah, campers. He smiles and starts towards the light. “Excuse me. Hello?”

No answer. He steps closer and calls. 

No answer. The bell chimes. Bilbo follows.

The light gets no closer as it leads Bilbo away. Carter Rock looms above, but Bilbo does not notice. He must find the light. He must find the—

He nearly runs into an oak tree, tall and thick. Now he is truly lost, he thinks as he looks around. He doesn’t know this area.

But he sees the light ahead. He has nowhere else to go.

So he steps forward.

The trees behind him were not there a moment ago. Nor were the roses in the front of him. He is certain that is edelweiss behind that rock there, and that isn’t native to this area. Is that hellebore? And wolfsbane? So many plants, but Bilbo is drawn to the simplest. He approaches the roses.

“How came you here?”

He jumps, squeaks, and turns around. A man steps out of the shadow of the oak—no, he steps _from_ the oak. Tall and strong, Bilbo thinks. For a moment, he thinks that he is an oak. An oak of a man.

“I will not ask again.” Even his voice is strong. “How did you come here?”

Bilbo blinks. “The-the light. I saw it in the fog.”

The man looks over Bilbo’s shoulder. He sighs. “You wear my colors on the night of the full moon, on the Harvest Moon, and you wear no black. They thought you mine.”

Bilbo begins to protest—his? What colors? No black? He was lost!—but the man raises a hand and Bilbo falls silent. The man steps closer.

Bilbo gasps.

This man is not a normal man. He is…he _is._ Tall, towering, and terrific, the not-a-man leaves Bilbo aware of just how small a man he is. A crown of golden oak rests on his head, leaves scattered thought and clinging to his unkempt, grey-streaked hair. His eyes are strange, glass and grey.

On his breast, over his heart, _growing_ from his heart, is a rose. A shining rose, bright with its own light.

Or perhaps the not-a-man’s.

Bilbo thinks of a boy.

Bilbo cannot look away from the rose. This flower should not exist. This place should not exist. 

“But it does.” The not-a-man looks at Bilbo. Had he spoken?

The not-a-man steps closer. What Bilbo took for gloves and boots crack—they are bark. He is bark and branch, shade and shine, human and inhuman. It hurts to look at him.

“This place exists in the shadow of Carter Rock, between it and the world.” The man’s voice is deep. Bilbo feels it through his bones. “It is fae, but you are not. You wear my green, my grey, but you are not mine. Why?”

His green? His grey? Bilbo’s eyes go to the green of his tunic, the grey of his hair. “I-I teach. I am an English teacher for the school. Gandalf—”

The air snaps. The trees grow dark and the rose shines bright. “And what does the witch-man what?” demands the man. The not-a-man.

The faerie.

Bilbo sways. “He-he hired me. And left me. I am new, I didn’t know—!”

The air breathes. The rose dims. The trees remain dark. The faerie sighs. “You are not mine. Nor are you his. You were lost.”

“Yes.” Didn’t Bilbo say that? Or did he only think it? He can’t recall. His head feels light. “I was lost.”

“Yet you do not leave.”

“The trees…”

The faerie shrugs and steps even closer. Smoke and metal—strange things to smell on a faerie. Oak and rose do not smell like that. Is he not a faerie? “Then you must stay for now. The trees will move when the moon is high.”

His eyes glint and Bilbo begins to speak. His mother—dead five years and an author. His father—dead ten and house-spouse. His home, now sold, and the cottage he has now. He mentions the neighbor boys and the faerie winces, clutching the rose. Clutching his heart. A shadow passes over his face.

He _is_ a man.

Or he was.

A shining rose. A smiling boy. A stolen uncle.

Bilbo says nothing. The man, the faerie, the faerie man nods. He knows.

“You were taken.”

“Aye.”

“You are cursed.”

“Aye.”

“You are not what I see.”

“Aye.” The man clutches at the rose. “And nay. I am, and I was. I had no choice. The rose…it takes who it will. I saw it and it took me. It brought me here, to the oaks. It crowned me King.”

The Oaken King. Or the Stolen King.

“The town knows. They will not speak my name for fear of my curse. Green, grey—they will not wear them. The black roses keep me away, keep the light from finding them. Newcomers are not told for fear of drawing me close…and in hopes I will take them.”

Bilbo cries out in fear and anger, a loud sound in this grove of silence. A human sound in this place of Fae. “You will not take me!”

The man smiles. It is sad. Why is he sad? “I will not. You are aware. I _can_ not. I can only keep you until the trees move.”

His smile turns fey. 

Bilbo swallows. His heart pounds. “And how long will that be?” He can see nothing but the King. He wants to see nothing but the King.

“Long enough.” The King offers a hand.

Bilbo takes it.

* * * 

It is two days before Bilbo returns. The town seems shocked. How is he back? Is he safe? Will he steal a child and return to the King of Carter Rock who awaits him at the crossroads?

No. No he will not. Bilbo returns to class. He teaches Lewis to the fourth graders and Stevenson to the seventh graders and remains unchanged.

Or so he seems.

An acorn tucked in his pocket. A scar from a rose thorn. These remind him that it was real.

It is a week before anyone speaks to him of it, and it is the dark boy with stars in his smile and fire in his heart who does.

“You met him.” 

Bilbo looks up from his book and tea, ginseng clearing his mind. The small, dark head looks at him from outside the open window. Bilbo nods. “I did.”

The boy smiles. “The King is my uncle. I’m not supposed to remember him, but I do. He found a shining rose.” He holds up a sphere of crystal. It shines faintly. It reminds Bilbo of the rose. “This fell from it. I found it, so that means I will get my own rose. It said so. Fili can be King though. I just want my rose.”

Pained smiles and sad eyes flash in Bilbo’s mind. The boy does not know what he wants.

He says nothing. The boy rambles on. “You came back. Mother shushed Fili when he said that. She doesn’t want to hope that you might save him.”

That is news. “Save him?

Before the boy can answer, the brother’s voice calls out. A grin, and the boy runs off.

Save him?

Is it possible to save him? The days spent with the King are a blur, yet his brightest memory. His strong voice. His sad eyes. His pain whenever he smiled and the rose would shine brighter.

His family and home not ten minutes away.

Bilbo would do it. He would save the King.

But how? 

No one would tell him. Bilbo knows this. They would not talk to him if he mentioned the King. They would flee.

He wants to help. But how?

Ask the King. Bilbo remembers the way.

He will always remember the way.

He waits until it is night, a Friday so if he is gone no one will notice. He slips out, again in the green and grey that called him to the King.

The fog finds him.

The fog takes him.

The King waits for him, taking him in his arms when Bilbo passes the oak and trees close behind him. For a moment, Bilbo forgets. For several moments, he does not remember.

He does not remember until he and his Kin are tired and pleased. Bilbo watches the rose shine.

He watches the King pale.

“I will save you. You must tell me how.”

The King stares. “Save me? You cannot. You should not.”

“I can. I will. Tell me how.”

“It will kill you.”

“It won’t.”

“You are mortal.”

“So were you.”

“You won’t give up.”

“I never do.”

The King smiles and they kiss. “You must find me on Halloween. We ride on Halloween and my curse will break if the ride is not finished. You must find me on Halloween.”

A month. Bilbo had a month.

He has done more in less.

“There will be horses. Do not approach the black—they cannot be saved. Nor can the brown. The white are cursed. They will take you with us. I will ride the blood red steed. You must pull me down.”

The King is larger. The King is stronger. Bilbo will struggle. He needs strength.

“They will fight. They have spells and will curse me. I will struggle, and you must not let go. They will come close and try to pull me from you. I may die. You must not let go.”

Bilbo is not strong. He cannot fight. He needs protection. 

“You must wait at my crossroads. They must not see you. The light must not find you. The light must not find me.”

Bilbo is not quiet. He cannot hide. He must be invisible.

It is impossible.

“I will do it.” 

The King does not hope, but Bilbo does. He knows.

He knows plants. 

First he must find oak. That will be easy. Rowan, next—but will that hurt the King? Not if he uses it right. He will be protected.

There are no plants for invisibility, no plant to hide what ought not be there.

Bilbo looks at the rose of the King.

He thinks of the village. He remembers black.

Bilbo will be hidden.

* * *

It takes a month to get what Bilbo needs. He trades books for an oaken staff and coin to have it carved to his size. The man on the lake takes food for his rowan wand, bread to keep the faeries away while Bilbo saves a King.

That leaves the rose, and it seems the village will not let him have it. It is as if they know and do not trust him. The roses vanish overnight, the pendants gone and the doors replaced. No one will give him one. No one will talk to him. They are gone and with them hope. 

It is Halloween and he is not ready.

But he must try. Staff and wand, grey and green, Bilbo must save his King. 

The door shuts behind him. It is cold.

“I see you have met him.”

It is Gandalf, leaning against Bilbo’s fence. There is something in his hands.

“Met who?”

“The King. And now you want to save him.” 

Bilbo frowns. “Of course! He is a man.”

“H was. He is not now.”

“So you think. He is a man, he mourns and loves and longs, and you do not have to believe me. But I will save him, Gandalf.”

Gandalf looks at Bilbo. Bilbo looks back. For a moment, Gandalf is old, older than the world, grey and wise and dangerous. There is fire in his eyes, and kindness in his heart.

It passes. Gandalf nods. He offers Bilbo the package.

It is a cloak. There is a black rose on the back.

There is hope.

“You may want that.”

And then he is gone. Bilbo thinks for a moment that Gandalf is no more human than the rose that stole the King.

It passes. He puts on the cloak. He is ready. 

The village is empty as Bilbo passes through. Ash, oak, and mistletoe line the street lights, doors, and windows. Shiny iron locks keep the doors shut. Black roses are painted on the gate.

Bilbo should be behind them. He should not be out.

But he is. He will not hide.

The fog does not find him. He finds it, ghosting over tree and rock, pooling at the crossroads.

It is quiet.

It is dead.

Bilbo should hide. He should not be seen. 

Bells, crisp and clear, to the north.

He does not hide. He stands ready. He has hope.

Hoofbeats, loud and solid, to the north.

He will do this. He will win.

The black horses come first. Their riders laugh and scream with delight, all of them women, women with grave dirt in their hair and ragged gowns on their bodies. They are the lost women, the women left for dead or worse, saved by Faerie. Bilbo cannot save them.

They do not see him. He is safe.

The brown come next, their riders stern and vicious men. There is blood on their saddles and swords on their hips. These are the hunters. They frighten Bilbo.

They do not see him. He is safe.

The white horses have no riders. They pass Bilbo and seem to say come ride. Take a bridle. Come ride with us.

Bilbo does not like horses. He does not heed the call. It is close, though.

The blood red steed comes last and oh, Bilbo is afraid.

His King sits on the steed, yet he is not Bilbo’s King. This is not the faerie-man, pained and lonely, lovely and loved. This is a faerie. His golden crown burns with white fire, his eyes empty glass. The bark covers his skin like dragon scales and at his heart is the rose, unchanged, shining bright. It has claimed its King.

Bilbo is afraid. How can he save the King? He wants to run.

He does not. He reaches out, he takes the horse’s bridle, he pulls the King off. The horse rears and the King roars. The rose shines, but the light does not reach Bilbo.

The riders stop. They turn.

They ride.

Bilbo is quick. A circle drawn with the rowan will keep him safe. The oak is strong and gives Bilbo its strength as he grips it, holding the King with his other hand. The King struggles, roaring. The rose shines brighter. No light touches Bilbo.

The rose does not stop shining.

The riders reach them, circle them, shouting for blood. “He was hidden! He is hidden! How?”

“Black rose!”

“Oak!”

“Rowan!”

“Save the King!”

The King fights harder, spurred by the riders. He is gold, molten and burning. Bilbo will die if he does not let go.

He does not.

The King roars. He is a bear, biting and feral. Bilbo will be eaten if he does not let go.

He does not.

The King grows. He is an oak, cursed and evil and hungry. He will take Bilbo’s soul and leave him to die. Bilbo must let go.

_He does not._

The King weakens. The fighting stops. The rose still shines, and the riders’ shouts turn to cries as they try to push past the circle. They cannot, but it will not hold. This must end soon.

The shining rose dims. The bark fades. The King begins to bleed. Bilbo holds him close.

The rose falls. His breath stops. The King begins to die.

“Human! You have killed him! He has no heart!” they call. “Let him go!”

Bilbo does not listen. He covers the King with his cloak.

The rose shatters. 

The King begins to breathe.

The riders cry as one and ride off. “The King has fallen! He is gone! The rose is dead!”

The fog begins to clear. The King—the man—opens his eyes.

They are blue. They are lovely.

“You saved me.”

Bilbo nods. He is tired.

“I am free.”

Bilbo nods. He is hungry.

“I am home.”

Bilbo shakes his head. “No. Not yet. I can take you there.”

The King stands. He offers his hand.

Bilbo takes it.


End file.
